


Pick Thy Battles

by japansace



Series: My Love, We Deserve the Softest Eternity [16]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: + magic, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood, Developing Relationship, Elves, Found Family, King Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Prince Yuri Plisetsky, Queen Yuuri Katsuki, Swords & Sorcery, Violence, i just discovered that tag and now it's My Brand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24828475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/japansace/pseuds/japansace
Summary: “Sorry to disturb you, Yuri—” Otabek begins, upon his entrance, but he knows not what he’s wrought.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Series: My Love, We Deserve the Softest Eternity [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1133426
Comments: 24
Kudos: 181





	Pick Thy Battles

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, my first fic that doesn't have Victuuri as the main pairing. I feel like I've hit a milestone.
> 
> This is a direct continuation of the events from Roam Thy Pastures, so please at least read that one first before you read this!
> 
> Ages:
> 
> Yuri: 515  
> and...

It takes a lot longer to leave Woodland from the east as opposed to the west, Yuri finds.

He has only ever gone west—bound for either Sealand or Sunland—and thus, what awaits him on the other side of the brush where forest peters out into plain eludes him. Sure, he’s seen it on maps that a river snakes through the territory, eventually leading to the human settlement of Lake District; but it’s a lot different to see it for himself—the color of the grass, the spacing of the boulders, the wildlife that scurries by—than read it off a flat piece of paper, with only the most minimal of markings.

They make intermittent stops, riverside. Like most elves, Yuri doesn’t tire easily, which makes him easily prone to boredom during these periods, but the dwarves need it, so they rest. Yuri usually takes to writing during these times, scribbling stream-of-conscious when he can’t find enough useless facts to pad his letters out.

He’s once by the fire doing exactly this when the most obnoxious of the dwarves (in his opinion) drops down beside him, with an exaggerated grunt. Said dwarf leans towards him with an arched eyebrow, trying to read off Yuri’s paper, but Yuri holds it to his sternum to prohibit this, sending the other into a cackle.

“Oh, what’s wrong, ‘ _Yura_ ’? Writing home to your mama?”

“ _No_ ,” Yuri lies, through gritted teeth. “I’m writing _reports_ , as I was _instructed_.”

Jean Jacques just rolls his eyes. “Sure.”

“Don’t antagonize him,” Otabek says, striding over. He takes up a stick to poke at the fire. “The queen insisted he write.”

“Yes,” Yuri says, and he has to remind himself, yet again, that none of these outsiders should be aware he is Victor and Yuuri’s child. It was decided long ago that that fact should be kept quiet, unless proven to be strategically advantageous. “It is my responsibility.”

Jean Jacques only huffs some laughter under his breath.

“He could kill you in countless different ways, you know.” This is said by the red-haired elf, Mila, from her look-out post up a tree. She doesn’t even glance at him as she adds, “Your mortal mind wouldn’t even be able to comprehend it. One second, whole dwarf; the next, a thousand dwarven pieces.”

“H-hey—”

“Stay out of this, Mila.” _Don’t be too obviously protective of your prince, Mila._

She merely laughs, dropping off the branch onto her feet. “For all he knows, it could be true.”

“It’s not—?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Enough squabbling, all of you.” Leo lifts a rag, from where he’d thrown it over his eyes to take a nap. “I’m in charge of this expedition, and until it terminates, I say _quiet_.”

No one in the faction particularly likes this statement, but it goes uncontested. Only Guang Hong looks pleased, from where he has the dwarven prince’s head in his lap.

The group then falls into a restless silence.

Blessedly, it only takes another half-day before they’ve made it to the edge of Lake District, ambling up to the canal as the sun begins to make its descent over the horizon. They're made to pay a small fee to enter the town proper—in gemstones, extracted from Leo’s own pocket—before they’re let through, out into the bustling square.

Yuri has never seen so many humans in one place.

It’s not altogether dissimilar from Woodland, but what few differences there are strike him, vicious as a blow. The people dress here oddly; women wear long gowns while men stick to more constricting garments, tailored in at the legs. Yuri has only seen his parents dress in the latter style on a select few occasions—usually to spar, in so that the fine material of their other wears aren’t tattered or torn. And the “opposite” sexes don’t seem to intermingle much, sticking to their own sides of the road, whispering behind hands when an interesting fellow or lady passes by on the other side.

Furthermore, the animals are sparse here. In Woodland, the creatures of the woods aid them in almost every aspect. The animal talents speak to them, bidding them to do tasks in exchange for rewards; others form a working relationship outside of a shared language, training horses to carry riders and dogs to chase down prey. Cats keep the vermin away, and even squirrels can be reasoned with into guiding one to a cache of nuts. Come nighttime, elves’ most trusted companions nearly always huddle around them, sharing their warmth; they’re seen as members of the community, if not the immediate family.

Here, the streets feel cold.

It doesn’t help that the roads are paved, laid with blunt stonework. How will the ground talents reach their element? How will those who work with foliage be able to toil the earth?

“I don’t like it here.”

“You’re being overdramatic,” Jean-Jacques says, but everyone else remains quiet. Even the other dwarves seem to sense the elf’s unease, the fine hair on the back of their necks pulled taut.

“Let’s go introduce ourselves to the governor,” Leo says, dismissive. He breaks his way into the crowd, the rest of the company going to follow, if a bit stilted.

“Governor” is not a word Yuri is overly familiar with. His parents may be king and queen—and have the final say in most things—but they don’t _govern_ anyone. Elves live their own lives, in relative peace. The monarchy mostly observes—and if someone in the community doesn’t like how they observe, they’re welcome to challenge the monarchs’ rights. They’re also welcome to get knocked into the dirt, because no one bests Yuri’s parents.

(Doesn’t mean they can’t try though.)

“Ah, Governor Duncliffe.” Leo seems to recognize the man, when they ushered into his home by a gaggle of homely servant girls on the highest hill in the settlement.

“Your Highness!” The governor seems beyond pleased to be hosting royalty. He’s worn his finest frock, as though he was anticipating their arrival. Yuri can’t quite grasp how he knew what day they were turning up, seeing as the dwarves were drastically behind schedule. But then again, it was possible he had worn it every day, just in case. “So good to have you in Lake District again!” He juts out his arm, hand held forward like an offering.

Yuri tilts his head in confusion as Leo takes it and shakes it, just once. He then gestures behind him, at the company. “You know Guang Hong, of course. I also have with me Jean Jacques and Otabek, and as you may have already been able to tell, we’ve picked up some elves along the way.”

“Oh my,” the governor says. He looks positively _delighted_ to see such foreign stock in his court. He holds his hand out again, anticipatory, but Yuri snubs it, looking over to his side.

His parents would probably have scolded him for that. The appropriate protocol for meeting another elf for the first time is to hold a hand above the heart and bow. After that, they often go steps further, touching foreheads, holding a hand to the other’s cheek, or even embracing. To bring skin to skin is a sign of trust in the other elf; to not extend the courtesy, after an initial introduction, is to claim, “I don’t know this one and I don’t care to.”

But what this human doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“Ah…” The governor drops his hand, hesitantly.

Mila and Georgi pick up the slack. “Mila,” she says, bowing the appropriate way; “Georgi,” Georgi says, doing the same.

Yuri doesn’t bring his eyes forward, but his hand does make it to his chest, eventually. “Yuri.”

The governor seems to think it’s good enough.

They’re ushered into rooms after that—separately, which Yuri is grateful for after all the space-sharing of their journey there—to retire for the night. It’s admittedly hard to settle, though, in such unfamiliar surroundings.

It’s gray here. Dreary. The governor’s house is all brick and mortar, a scar upon the land; it’s nothing like the castle Yuri grew up in, what with how it leans against the side of the largest tree in Woodland Forest, a mere extension of the environment around it. He’s used to his home breathing with the rest of them, the rustle of leaves and the howling of his parents’ precious wolf pack.

It’s too quiet here. Too cold.

He goes to the desk in the corner of the room he’s been allotted, to write to his parents just that.

The wind howls outside as Yuri sets pen to paper—as though it too is struggling, being forced through such small alleyways, so antithetical to its true nature. Yuri has to set a hand down upon the desk, in so that his parchment won’t fly away.

Besides his immediate surroundings, he finds he has little else to say—except what he’s been saying all this time, in that the dwarf Otabek intrigues him. He’s quiet, not at all rowdy like dwarves are known to be. He’s young enough to have no beard aside from stray stubble, but something in his eyes tells Yuri he’s wiser than first impressions may imply. Yuri can’t go by his usual parameters to distinguish his age; the man is held to no elven traditions of haircutting that Yuri knows, and what he understands of dwarven culture is shallow at best and outright inaccurate at worst.

Perhaps he could just ask.

A sharp knock resounds, then, throughout the room. “Sorry to disturb you, Yuri—” Otabek begins, upon his entrance, but he knows not what he’s wrought. The opening of the door has created a vacuum—the air flow being drawn from the window—and it whips a current over Yuri’s desk, drawing the letter he had so been pouring over off the surface, towards the open doorway and smacks Otabek right across the face.

Yuri shoots up from his seat but only manages to stand there with his mouth open, in stunned silence.

Slowly, Otabek withdraws the paper from his face, eyes narrowing at what’s written there.

“No, don’t—”

The wind whips once more, drawing the letter out from Otabek’s grip only to gently deposit it onto the floor.

The words _I love you, Mama and Papa_ are clearly visible at the bottom of the page.

“Ah,” Otabek says. His tone doesn’t give anything away; and Yuri is reticent to correct him one way or the other. “I see. So then… you really were writing to your mother all this time.” He looks Yuri in the eye, as blunt as his statements. “The queen, I mean.”

“Yes.” Yuri grimaces. “At least shut the door, would you?”

Otabek does, the click of the handle being released loud as a dragon’s roar.

He takes a seat upon the bed, Yuri lowering himself before the desk again. Otabek folds his hands, upon his lap.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he says at last.

Yuri startles, despite himself. “Really?”

“Yes.” He tilts his head, just slightly. “Though I am confused as to why it is a secret at all.”

“For safety, of course.” Yuri scoffs. “The last thing my parents want is for me to be kidnapped and ransomed.”

“I see.” Otabek seems to consider this, gazing down as though to study his fingers. “Would it help,” he starts, after a while, “if I let you in on something in return, to even the playing field?”

It’s an odd proposition, but Yuri is intrigued. “I… suppose…?”

Otabek adjusts himself, unfolding his hands to reach one up to his temple. He pushes the hair back there, revealing a single ear to the light.

Yuri can’t help a gasp.

The ear is small but pointed, _elvish._

It’s unmistakable.

Yuri feels himself rising, going over to the bed. Otabek merely moves over, to allot him more room. Yuri traces over the ear with the pads of his fingers, in slow circles.

“Who—?”

“My mother.” Otabek shrugs. “She’s from Sunland. She fell in love with my father from the Western Mountains when he came to trade some ore with her. And well… the rest is history.”

“Then…” Yuri takes one of Otabek’s hands in his own. He draws the fingers delicately over the surface of Otabek’s palm, leaving a snowflake there in the center. “Do you have a talent?”

“Not that I know of,” Otabek answers, but the words feel far away. His brown eyes are shining, reflecting back the snow-crystals of the flake. “Nothing’s ever manifested. As far as I can tell, I’m just a slightly taller than average dwarf with pointed ears.”

“Hm,” Yuri considers. He lifts his hand a little above Otabek’s, to rain down more flecks upon the skin. “That’s a shame.”

Otabek only shrugs again. “Can’t miss something you never had.”

Yuri stops then, the yellow ombre fading from his eyes back to its natural green. “True enough.”

Otabek begins to stand. “Anyway, I came in here to say that we’re getting a head-start tomorrow and rising with the dawn. The goblins were seen advancing this way from one of the watch towers, and we need to do some scouting of the terrain before they are to arrive.”

Yuri nods. “Understood.”

Otabek goes to the door. “Then goodnight, Yuri.”

“W-wait—"

Otabek does.

Yuri bites at his lower lip. He doesn’t think he should ask what he wants to—but he’s already here. The words crowd together on the edge of his tongue. “If you’re… You’re half-elf, so does that mean you’re…?”

“Immortal?”

Yuri nods, guiltily.

“I don’t know,” Otabek says. His hand rests heavy on the hinge of the door. “I’ve never gotten a wound severe enough to test it out—and I’m not exactly in a hurry to either, you know?”

Yuri looks away, abashed. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Otabek turns the handle. “Goodnight, Yuri.”

“Goodnight.”

But Yuri doesn’t end up sleeping much of that night at all.

* * *

The field just outside of Lake District is marshy, distinct in its many hills and valleys. And the town just so happens to be built at the lowest point in the immediate area, at the very end of a downward slope. It’s not good strategically, Yuri thinks. These humans are idiots.

“These humans are idiots,” he voices, heedless of the governor and Lake District’s small standing army just paces behind them as they make their way out through the city gates.

Georgi shrugs, and Mila laughs. The dwarves mostly pretend not to have heard him for the sake of keeping the peace.

They set up camp a little farther up, for a better vantage point, but it’s not much of an improvement. While the humans pitch tents and polish their steel, the pack of elves and dwarves split up to see if they can pick up any sign of the goblins still heading this way.

Yuri scales a tree at the edge of a bog, but it’s short, scraggly. Nothing grows large here, the foliage mostly staying low to the ground. He scans the horizon but comes up with nothing; the whole scene appears eerily calm.

He’s almost entirely circled back to the base again when his ears twitch at the sound of flammable resin catching light, a firecracker subsequently coloring the sky to his left about a mile off.

Something’s been spotted.

The camp is in chaos when Yuri returns; he eyes the crowd quickly for a familiar face but finds none and grabs for a quiver instead, fully intending on joining the fray—

—until a warm hand catches him by the shoulder.

“You can’t go out there.”

Yuri spins around, to face Otabek dead-on. “What are you talking about? I’m an ice talent! I’m good with a bow and—“  
  
“I’m sure you are,” Otabek says. His jaw is set, his tone meant to deescalate. “But let me put this in the simplest terms I can: We can most certainly survive a hoard of goblins by ourselves. What we can’t survive is _your parents_ , if we were to return to Woodland one elf short.”

Yuri’s nose wrinkles in disdain at this. “What the fuck? I thought we talked about this! I’m just an elf like anyone else!”

“Except you’re not.”

“Neither are _you!_ ”

“Look, Yura—”

“Don’t call me ‘Yura.' You can’t call me Yura!”

“Yuri, now isn’t the time—”

“Fine, go be a hero.” Yuri slumps to the ground against a tent stake, with crossed arms.

Otabek looks pained to leave him there—but does, as time is of the essence. Yuri watches him as he shrinks into the distance—

—then gets up to follow, when he’s safely out of sight.

* * *

The goblin hoard they’re meant to fight, Otabek finds, is particularly nasty. They had been hiding when first discovered, apparently picking up bad habits from their tricky orcish brethren.

Dwarves from the Northern, Eastern, and Southern Mountains are already engaged in combat by the time the humans and he come to their aid, having had the bad fortune of coming across them first. Otabek slots in right alongside them, drawing out an elvish blade from his belt gifted to him by his mother to drive it into the back of a goblin who is after one of his fellow dwarves, cutting him down to size before the brute can get in a good lunge.

The ring of metal is ever-present, and the scent of sweat is cloying. Otabek only catches glimpses in his peripherals of the elves assisting them, shards of ice and blasts of snow knocking back opponents alongside sword, axe, and bow. They have the distinct advantage of being able to take on many goblins at once; Otabek has to settle for one at a time—maybe two if he’s lucky and takes another out on the backswing as well.

He fades into the fight: mind and body. Logic is secondary to feeling, and feeling is secondary to instinct.

Still, he senses it when a presence rises behind him, the shadow of a battle axe drawing long and ominous over the notches of his back.

“Fuck—” He goes to turn, but he already knows it’ll be too late. At best, he’ll get a nasty wound on the upper right shoulder; at worst, certain death.

He envisions it: the cutting of flesh, the running of blood.

But when he turns, he only sees the goblin frozen— _quite literally._ It’s encased entirely in ice, a grotesque figure: axe raised, nostrils flailing, jaw unhinged mid-battle cry.

He only has a second more to consider what fate has befallen it before another goblin means to take advantage of Otabek’s gawking and goes to attack—but an arrow screams through the sky, freezing the entire creature into place upon impact.

“Hey, asshole!”

Otabek whips his head around at the voice.

There, some thirty yards off, Yuri has positioned himself in a crouch upon a branch of the highest tree in the area, bow in hand. He sets another arrow upon his string and nocks it, felling another beast. “This far enough away for you?” he practically yells.

“Yes,” Otabek says, though it’s far too quiet for Yuri to have heard.

“Look alive, dumbass!” Yuri says, reaching behind him for another arrow. “We got a fight to win!”

Otabek finally snaps out of his shock enough to nod at Yuri, determinedly.

He sets to fighting again, with twice the vigor. There’s a certain confidence in his movements now, knowing he has someone he can trust to watch his back. His sword strikes true more often than not, felling enemy after enemy. His senses take it all in: the initial resistance, the vitals running down the blade, the weight of bodies hitting the dirt. He should be focusing on _that._

And yet, all he can think in this moment is that Yuri had the eyes of a soldier.

It’s not long after that the goblins begin to turn tail to make a hasty retreat.

“Don’t let them escape!” Yuri shouts, his voice carrying above the rest. He holds up his bow by the grip overhead. “Fight for Woodland! An Hon Majesties Erein Victor a Rís Yuuri!”

Mila and Georgi answer the cry from somewhere in the fray.

Between the elves, the dwarves, and the humans, they manage to snuff out every last goblin. The ground is a wasteland by the end, littered with scattered arrows and shattered blades. Most fighters look a little worse for wear but not without good humor; they didn’t seem to suffer too many losses, perhaps the most optimistic outcome they could have hoped for.

Otabek goes to where Yuri is still up the tree, holding out a hand as though to assist him.

Yuri rolls his eyes but drops down and slaps it regardless, in acknowledgment. “Terrible concentration you had out there,” he says, leaning on his bow. “But good form. You may not be an entirely lost cause.”

“Thank you. You were…” Words don’t feel adequate. He was a vision: a winter storm, deadly but beautiful. “… incredible.”

“I know,” Yuri says, entirely smug.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I was just trying to make the best call.”

“Eh, you did what you thought you had to.” He knocks his knuckles against Otabek’s chest-plate with a cheeky grin. “But this stays between us, all right? My parents can’t ever know about this.”

Otabek levels him with a stare. “Your mother reads minds _._ ”

“He won’t if I ask him not to.”

“If you insist.”

“Now come on! I want to see what a human victory feast looks like!” He turns his back on Otabek, the gold of his hair swaying behind him.

The eyes of a soldier, Otabek thinks again.

And a heart of gold.

**Author's Note:**

> ... Otabek: 118
> 
> (Yes, Otabek’s technically younger than Yuri in this universe. But in terms of maturity, he’s a bit ahead.)
> 
> Elvish translation: For His Majesties King Victor and Queen Yuuri!
> 
> ~~And yes, Yuri essentially uses his talent to have the ice arrows from the Legend of Zelda, don’T COME FOR ME~~


End file.
